


A Sailor From The Sea

by Ls2103cp



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, In-Universe RPF, Multi, Pirates, WIP
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 11:49:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19376113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ls2103cp/pseuds/Ls2103cp
Summary: Captain John Smith is a pirate on the run when he meets the mysterious barmaid River Song.





	A Sailor From The Sea

**Author's Note:**

> It will eventually call for the mature rating, I promise!

The sound of rain came as the door opened. A shuffling, stiff tread and a rap on the bar announced an interloper on her morning. She rolled her eyes, there were still a few regulars sleeping off the night before in dark corners of the tavern and the midmorning rush was still a few hours off. This was her sacred quiet time; to be alone with her thoughts, to not be batting away handsy patrons or rebuffing clumsy advances.

The voice that destroyed her morning calm was gruff, “Whisky, don’t bother with a glass.” She straightened from her task of restocking behind the bar and wiped her palms on her skirt. The sodden stranger didn’t look up, “Just give me the damn bottle.”

“Long trip sailor?” He looked up at that. Her voice was rich and smooth, English.

He made a non-committal noise in response, but a smirk had lodged in the corner of his mouth. Bloody hell, he thought, the woman standing before him looked every bit the image he’d always held of Boudicca from his nan’s old tales; all wild red hair and eyes the color of the Caribbean Sea. So very far from the frigid streets of Edinburgh he now found himself in.

She grabbed the bottle of whisky from the shelf, “You got coin for this?”

He withdrew a damp leather pouch from his pocket and dropped it onto the bar where it landed with the unmistakable thud of money. “It’s all I’ve got coin for.”

She nodded her head and placed the bottle in front of him, “Fair enough. I’ll leave you to it.”

“Wait,” his hand was rough on hers’, “Nardole, where is the little bastard?”

The woman’s eyes hardened but she remained silent; unsure of what this stranger wanted from the tavern’s owner.

“I’m not looking for trouble alright,” he said, sensing her hesitation. “I just need his help. He still owns this place, yes? Will he be in today, or could you get a message to him for me?”  
She raised an elegant brow and nodded toward his coin purse. “Ah,” he smiled and pressed a few coins into her palm, “What say you now?”

She pocketed the coin then called out, “Ramone?”

 

* * *

 

He didn’t know where he was, only that it was dry, and warm, and smelled of bergamot. He had found himself in an unfamiliar bed, alone, with the very dim grey Scottish light of day in his eyes. His head throbbed and he prayed the stench coming off him wasn’t nearly as bad as he thought.

A snort of laughter made his head snap up, “Yes, you really do smell that bad.”

“You,” he said, recognizing the wild haired bar keep. Then, noticing his clothes were gone, “Where the bloody hell are my clothes?”

She nodded her head toward the small brazier in the corner; his clothes were neatly laid out next to the warm heat of the little fire.  
“Come down when you’re decent.”

The words came unbidden, “I never am,” he shook his head as he caught her deserved eye roll, “Sorry, reflex.”

“Mmhm,” she turned to head back down the narrow staircase.

“Look,” his voice stopped her, and she turned back to him, “I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name, unless of course you told me last night, or morning, whenever, in which case, I don’t remember it.”

“River Song.”

He seemed to mull it over, “River Song,” he tried the name, and she found she rather liked the sound of it on his lips. “I’m,” he took a moment, trying to decide what to tell this woman he found before him.

Her arms crossed over her chest, “I know exactly who you are Captain Smith. Nardole informed me yesterday when he had Ramon haul you up here. I had no idea my employer had such esteemed acquaintances,” she said sarcastically.

“You mean, we,” he paused, “didn’t, you know?” River scoffed. “Fine. I’ll take that as a no. Nardole’s a good friend, though sadly, it’s been too long since I’ve been home for a proper visit.”

“No, I don’t suppose notorious pirates get too many happy homecomings.”

“Notorious am I? Thought I was esteemed,” he seemed all too pleased with himself.

She walked over and threw his shirt at him, “Don’t get too comfortable. I won’t have you causing any trouble for him. Nardole is a good man.

He tugged the shirt over his head, “Agreed. But sometimes, even good men find trouble,” he said, pulling the linen shirt over his head.

“And I suppose you’re a good man?” River asked skeptically.

“No,” he responded, “I don’t suppose I am, though not the worst of them mind you.” His lips quirked in a wicked smile, “Perhaps I just need the right woman to show me the way.”

River rolled her eyes again, “I’ll let Nardole know you’ve come round.”

“Fine,” John shrugged, “I’m glad he has someone looking out for him. Um, you two aren’t,” he raised his brows suggestively.

Her scoff at this was even more dismissive than her previous one had been at his mention of their apparently fictious coupling; at least he seemed to rank higher than his bald little friend in her estimation of sexual partners.

“Is that all you think of?” She asked.

He flashed her a boyish grin, “Somewhere between treasure and whisky.” He flipped back the quilt and flung his long legs over the bedside, “Now, unless you’re interested in finding out exactly what I’m thinking about right now, I suggest you head downstairs.”

River’s jaw dropped a bit and she felt an infuriating flush flame to life in her cheeks, “I’ve never!”  
It was John’s turn to scoff, “Yes, you have.”

Her eyes were wide as she crossed the room and slapped him. John was stunned into silence for a moment before realizing the barmaid took his meaning wrong, well, somewhat.

“I’m sorry,” he searched for words and a tone he’d not had reason to use in a very long while, “You’re as fine a lass as I’ve seen and perhaps the company I’ve kept of late,” he paused and ran a hand over the grey stubble of his cheeks, “well, clearly it’s been some time since I spoke to,” he paused again before gesturing towards her, “a lady.”

She blinked back the tears that had sprung at his supposed insult to her virtue, “Now you’re just having a go at me.”  
He bit his tongue and swallowed the easy response, that in fact, yes, he would rather like a go at her. “No,” he said instead, “whatever else you are, you’re a lady.” His declaration struck a surprising chord of truth in both of them, and she turned without a further word.

* * *

 

The heat in River’s cheeks refused to subside as she made her way to the back of the bar where Nardole kept a small office. John’s words had stung more than she hoped he, or anyone knew. She wondered if her mother would laugh or cry to see her now; grimy, hair unkempt, a bloody barmaid, her inner monologue chuckled. She was alive; that was what mattered.


End file.
